


Compatibility

by MissSunFlower94



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Ballet, F/M, Mental Health Issues, To Be Continued, discussion of mental health issues, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 21:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13175553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSunFlower94/pseuds/MissSunFlower94
Summary: Marianne meets her co-lead for her Arts and Theater Company's upcoming production of Swan Lake, and he's nothing like she expected.





	Compatibility

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selkie_de_Suzie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkie_de_Suzie/gifts).



> This was written as a Christmas gift to my dear friend Suzie, but I enjoyed it so much and plan to write more in this universe/with this idea that I figured I'd post it here. Enjoy!

Marianne knew she was staring, and she wasn’t trying too hard to conceal it.

Because, to be frank, the man was worth staring at. Not to mention that she was more than allowed some curiosity when a stranger was cast as her co-lead in the upcoming spring production of Swan Lake. 

It wasn’t that it never happened that her city’s Arts and Theater Company took open auditions from the greater community, especially for bigger productions, but rarely did they land lead roles, when there was the whole issue of compatibility between leads. And rarely did they ever look like the photo of the man that she had been given when casting had been confirmed. 

The man in the photograph had looked like a lumberjack, or a construction worker. Or just homeless. He was in no less than four layers, and one of them was plaid. His beard looked too unkept to be hipster chic or whatever it was that her sister’s boyfriend, Sunny, was. He looked about as far as you could get from the role of a ‘handsome prince’, if he looked like a dancer at all.

His name, according to the listing, was Bog King.

Presently, two weeks after the cast announcement, she watched him stow his bags and change his shoes. They had the studio to themselves; a personal practice time slotted out for the two leads, the way actors did compatibility reads. It was a chance to see how they played off each other, to see how and if this would work between them.

He looked like the man in the casting picture; even more out of place perhaps because now she could see his height in person (6'6" jesus christ). But in practice clothing and out of his four plus layers of flannel, jean, and leather he was, in fact, quite athletically toned. His broad shoulders tapered into a thin waist and she might have snuck a glance at his ass while he got his shoes out of his bag. That was absolutely a ballerina’s ass. 

So yeah, she was absolutely staring. 

“Ye can ask, you know?” He spoke like they were coming out of a pause in an existing conversation and not like these were the first words he’d said to her. It took Marianne a second to even understand that he was addressing her.

“What?”

“I know what you’re thinking about asking and you don’t have to worry about offendin’ me- I get it often enough.”

Again, Marianne was thrown off by the conversational tone (if not by the gruff and slightly accented voice), and it took her a few more seconds before she understood he was commenting on her staring. That he had, more than likely, taken it as an insult to his appearance. He understood the question that she did, in fact, have:

_How the fuck does a man who looks like he just walked out of spending the past ten years living behind a truck stop come to be a ballet dancer?_

Which, to be fair, was a pretty insulting judgement to make on someone based on their appearance alone. And she had made it.

She felt her face warm, embarrassed and irritated at how accurately she had been read and called out by a total stranger. “You’re real great at starting a conversation, has anyone ever told you that?”

His eyes widened, taken aback. As if he hadn’t expected her to fire back (if this was really how he began conversations, she was surprised he wasn’t used to people responding in kind). But then, he smiled. It was sarcastic and bitter - the kind of smile her father would chastise her for. She decided she rather liked it. “All the time.”

“Charming.”

“That’s me.”

Marianne was rearranging her feelings towards him so quickly was giving her a bit of whiplash. Rarely did anyone keep up with her sarcasm to this level. 

Still, she knew she couldn’t make small quips much longer without bringing up the already remarked upon elephant in the room. She picked at the sleeve of her black leotard and pushed forward. “So… how long have you been dancing?”

Bog King glanced up at her, eyes moving across her face for a moment until a corner of his mouth twitched. They both knew that she was asking what he expected, but also not asking how he had expected. He returned to tucking his laces in. “Five years." 

Marianne was glad he was looking away, because she didn’t know how he’d react to her shock. "Five years?” She said at last, her tone as steady and mildly interested as she could make it.

He snorted, looking back at her again, his expression frustratingly unreadable. “I’m a quick study.” She would have made a face or sarcastic comment to that but he didn’t sound like Roland would have had he said the same thing. There was no pretension to it. It was just a fact. And despite his rough appearance, Marianne believed him.

“What got you started?” She asked, before she could stop herself. He raised his eyebrows and she quickly added. “It’s just- I’m used to people realizing pretty young that this is something they were into, you know?”

“And when did you start dancing?” Bog countered, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Two? Three years old?”

Marianne’s own lips twitched in spite of herself. He truly did have a charm about him, though unlike anyone else she’d met. “Four,” she said, lifting her chin a little. “And a half.”

Bog laughed shaking his head. “Of course." 

“I stopped for a while, a couple years back,” she blurted, unsure why she was, what, explaining herself to him? “Some shit happened and I said I was through. I didn’t think I was going to come back.”

Bog shifted on the bench, allowing her space to sit down, which she did. She had no idea why she was telling him this; even in the vaguest terms, talking about what went down with her and Roland was something she didn’t do. Ever.

“What changed?” He asked, as though her two sentence watered-down version of past trauma was worthy of his attention (and jesus, when was the last time Marianne had felt any part of her that wasn’t an on-stage persona was worthy of attention?).  

“I realized that I was still miserable,” she said, her shoulders rising and falling in more of a sigh than a shrug. “And I thought that was bullshit – like, why should I have to give up something I love because a few shitty memories. Screw that.”

Bog’s smile returned, and just like before, Marianne recognized that smile as one she’d given countless times. Bitter and full of a fierce ‘fuck it’ level of optimism that came after years of being hurt. She knew he got it. He didn’t even know a quarter of the full story but he got it. What did she do with that?

She tore her eyes away, looking back at her shoes, and realized she still needed to change into her pointe shoes. She hadn’t even begun stretching. This conversation had thoroughly distracted her from her usual pre-practice routines.  

She dug her pointe shoes out and began going through the motions of getting ready for practice, her mind wandering back to her earlier misgivings about potential compatibility with a stranger. It was looking like that might be the least of her problems.  

“Therapy,” Bog said suddenly. Marianne looked over and realized he had been watching as she got ready.

“What?”

“What got me started dancing,” he clarified. “It was therapy.”

“What?” She said again.

Thankfully that got a smile from him. “Some- how did ye put it? Some shit happened. I needed something to, I don’t know, distract myself? Keep myself functioning?” He laughed a little, though it wasn’t particularly happy. Dumbfounded, Marianne searched the lines of his face (he had to have at least five years on her, probably more), and bit her lip to keep from asking for details. He hadn’t.

“And this helps?” She asked at last, more incredulous than she had intended. It felt a bit like the equivalent of someone saying ‘have you tried yoga’ – she thought about the idea of someone suggesting that as therapy after Roland, and how negatively she might have reacted.

“Well, if ye haven’t noticed, it hasn’t exactly made me a ball of sunshine.” She snorted and he grinned. “But yes, it helps. It gets me out of my head, but doesn’t require… socializing. Does that make any sense?”

“Totally,” she said instantly, because it did. Some people found ballet a difficult form of theater but Marianne had always embraced a form of emoting that didn’t require words. “Well, I’m glad it worked. You’re obviously good at it.”

Bog waved off the compliment, though Marianne thought she could see his cheeks color. “Decent.”

“Decent doesn’t land you the lead in Swan Lake,” she told him firmly.

“I’m as surprised as anyone with that,” he retorted. “Certainly wasn’t what I was goin’ for. Not that I won’t take it,” he added quickly.

“Were you going for the wicked sorcerer?” She teased, looking at her tall, sharp-featured conversation partner. Earlier she would have worried that might have offended him but now she wasn’t surprised (though a bit pleased) to hear him laugh.

“Would be what I’m more familiar with.” At her inquisitive noise, he said, “I’ve been the Mouse King in the Nutcracker… twice now?” He counted on his fingers. “More suited to me than Prince Charming, I’d say.”  

Marianne had had that exact thought the second she saw him. She didn’t know if she agreed with it now.  

She busied herself with finishing her lacing. When she had Bog got to his feet. “Well, come on then- Marianne, was it?”

Dear god, had they not even properly introduced themselves yet? “Um, yeah.”

He offered a large hand, which Marianne wasn’t sure if she was supposed to take it like she was shaking it or like he was going to help her to her feet and awkwardly tried both. Bog laughed, and did indeed pull her up. For a second, she was thoroughly distracted by the first real impression of how much height different there was between them; she didn’t even reach his shoulder. The man could probably lift her with two fingers. She felt heat rush to her face and tried to very casually step away from him.

Seemingly unaware of her reaction, Bog released her hand and moved on, intent on the barre on the other side of the room. Grateful as she was to be moving on to actual business, she had one last thing to say on this topic, and if she didn’t now she knew she wouldn’t.  

“Hey, Bog?” He paused, turning to look at her. “Why’d you tell me all that? About your therapy and shit?”

His eyes narrowed, genuinely puzzled. “Ye asked.”

“Yeah but you said that everyone asks.”

“Not like you did,” he said. Before she could reply he added, “I didn’t tell ye any more than ye told me. Why did you?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. She was still confused about that. “I guess… I had a feeling you’d get it. Not a lot of people do.”

“I had a feelin you’d get it,” Bog echoed, offering her another crooked smile, like this was the simplest thing in the world. Like he wasn’t confused by how quickly they had bonded, like connecting through the course of a short somewhat cryptic conversation was perfectly normal.

And maybe it was. Maybe Marianne was overthinking things (Dawn would certainly say that she was). Maybe, for once, she could take her own advice and let herself have something nice.

She smiled back, shook her head, and joined Bog at the barre.


End file.
